Free The Beautiful Between by Alyssa B. Sheinmel

he’s trusting me. Maybe whatever Kate has is whatever my father had, and maybe her family is just as ashamed as mine.
    I try to think of illnesses that people associate with shame. All that occurs to me is AIDS, and that was only in the 1980s, before people knew what they know now. I mean, sure there are people who would still think it’s shameful, but not the Coles. They’re a liberal New York family. They hold fund-raisers for Democratic candidates in their apartment. I remember that in one of my favorite childhood books, there was a girl with diabetes and she kept it secret because she was scared of what her friends would think. But of course, the lesson was always that no one would care; they loved her anyway. And everyone would rally around Kate. She’s every bit as beloved a princess as Jeremy is a prince.
    I ransack my closet and I wonder why Jeremy said what he did exactly—that I got through it, that my father died but I’m okay now. Whatever Kate has, even if it’s what my father had, surely there’s some treatment now, some way to make it something she can, at least, live with. Whatever it is, it won’t kill Kate—the Coles can afford the best doctors in the world; fly her to Switzerland for the most cutting-edge treatment; hire twenty-four-hour-a-day home care; give her anything she needs.
    In the end, I wear jeans. Jeans are so innocuous, and I think it’s innocuous that I’m going for. I pull them on—tight over my hips, looser around my ankles. I even choose the pair that I’ve decided is a particularly ordinary shade of blue, even though they’re last year’s jeans, and not nearly stylish enough.
    If I look plain enough, then it won’t look like anything out of the ordinary has happened. But then I think, as I pull my hair into a ponytail, as I deliberately avoid the mascara next to the bathroom sink, that maybe this is too plain. I don’t want Jeremy to think that I don’t care. I want him to know that I understand he was talking about Kate—that I understand him and I know how much this matters. So I put on some lip gloss, but only a little, because I also don’t want him to think this is somehow exciting to me; that I’m curious, selfish, longing for gossip. And certainly the right outfit can’t help me figure out what I’m supposed to say to him.
    There is no right way to handle this situation.

    Physics is first period. Jeremy is never early to class like I am. They don’t let us into the science classrooms until the teacher shows up, because there are Bunsen burners and all kinds of chemicals in there, and I guess they’re worried about what we’ll touch. So it’s me and the early nerds waiting outside the room for Mr. Kreel, ready to rush in and get the good seats. I’m staring at my feet, and for the first time I think that maybe it’s strange that our school is carpeted.
    By the time Jeremy gets to class, I’m sitting perched in the second row, my notebook and pen at the ready, and the teacher is at the front of the room, waiting for everyone to settle down. It’s only the cool kids who wait until the last minute to settle. I swing my legs back and forth on the stool, but then I realize I’m irritating everyone else in my row, so I stop. But then I start clicking my pen so the tip comes in and out, which is probably even more irritating.
    Jeremy sits behind me like he always does, so I don’t see his face until class is over and we’re packing up. I’m in full panic mode because nothing that Mr. Kreel said today made sense to me. I want to ask Jeremy for help, but I’m also scared to talk to him, because I don’t know the right things to say.
    But he leaves the room without looking at me. I watch his back. How can he be so calm when I’m so nervous? I’ve been so worried all morning about looking, saying, and doing the right thing that I haven’t even thought about my father, and that seems wrong too. I should care about what I now know: he was ill. There was